Scattered ADM receipts whispered of betrayal$ past, the "corporation" Mr. Boom holds responsible for every physical, mental, and emotional fracture in his so-called "life."

Chrome flames licked the wheelchair's wheels, pulsating in sync with the sputtering fluorescent bulb above. Empty Mountain Dew cans and faded ADM receipts littered the floor, a unique ecosystem of chaos meticulously curated by Mr. Boom’s paranoia.

"They called me brittle," Mr. Boom rasped, his words bouncing off the concrete walls like a prophecy. "But brittle doesn’t mean weak. Brittle cuts."

He hammered a fist against the armrest of his neon monstrosity. "Just like that rigged "calendar," their fraud holiday$. Ljl. It’s all the same, Mainlining."

Mainlining (or a vision?) suddenly stepped into the room cautiously, drawn by a mix of morbid curiosity and the gravitational pull of Mr. Boom’s chaos.

The Holy Trinity loomed unspoken between them, its fractured edges mirrored in the neon glow. "This is the fortress? The cathedral of brittle ambition?" he asked, his voice dripping with sardonic amusement. "I expected more… uncashed checks."

Mr. Boom’s skeletal fingers, poking out from the frayed edges of his adult diaper, traced the edges of a crumpled ADM patent document pinned to the wall with a rusted thumbtack. Above it, a crude meme printed on yellowing paper showed a Photoshopped ADM logo dripping blood, captioned: "Fraud $yrup Runs the World."

Nearby, a rotting Boar’s Head "pep" sat fused to a crusty 30-year-old microwave, an altar to entropy and detachment.

The document was labeled "Entropy Dynamics," a corporate blueprint for perfection that Mr. Boom swore had shattered his life. To him, it wasn’t just a patent — it was a declaration of war, his manifesto. The words "Entropy Dynamics" were scrawled in the margins, a jagged mantra that seemed to breathe with a life of its own. "You don’t see it yet, but you’re here because you feel it. The Trinity calls, Mainlining. And you… you’re here to bear witness. To $ee. But Evan39? Evan39 thinks his grocery store complaints are important, like his Perkins Coie corner office. 'Try living in a world where the corn syrup flow$ like blood, you twink fagg!'" Mr. Boom snarled to no one in particular.

Mainlining leaned against the doorway, folding his arms. "What did ADM do to you, my friend?"

Mr. Boom’s lips twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace. "The "man" is the fraud, you fag$. Mock all you want. They call me a comic book villain in a neon wheelchair, but villains get the last laugh. They’ll see, Mainlining. They’ll all see. Age is flame, and I’m still burning."

"Sure," Mainlining said, dragging a dusty chair across the concrete to sit. "So, you’re saying you’re what… Mr. Glass but with worse taste in lighting?"

Mr. Boom’s bald head gleamed under the erratic strobe of his LED throne. "They thought they could grind me down. ADM, Safeway, every corn syrup-addled cog in their bloated system. But I’m still here. This chair…" He slapped the armrest, eliciting a sharp hiss from the hydraulics. "This chair is their monument to failure."

"You’re giving them a lot of credit for a guy sitting on rims powered by AA batteries," Mainlining quipped. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the stacks of unopened mail, the soy-stained bingo card, and the unopened CDs labeled "Soy Futures Collapse, 2008." "So, what’s the master plan? Roll into ADM HQ with your trusty Louisville Slugger and demand they dismantle capitalism?"

Mr. Boom’s laugh was dry, sharp like glass splintering under pressure. "You don’t get it. Entropy doesn’t just destroy. It reveals. Do you want to exterminate & burn homeless fools & their trash? No, you want the $ystem to do it for you. ADM built an empire on lies, and I’ll be there when it crumbles—the sharp edge that finishes the job."

Mainlining’s smirk faltered, replaced by something closer to curiosity, as if he were trying to reconcile the chaos before him with the fractured but unyielding logic of the Holy Trinity. For a moment, he seemed to see himself not as a skeptic, but as one more piece in Mr. Boom’s apocalyptic mosaic. "You really think brittle’s enough to take down the whole thing?"

Mr. Boom’s eyes glinted in the neon glow, a feral intensity lighting his face. "You’re lied to and cheated out of your life then laughed at. Brittleness isn’t just enough. It’s everything. I see the fractures, Mainlining. Like Mr. Glass, I see where it all breaks."

The flickering light above them dimmed, plunging the room into a brief, suffocating darkness. When it returned, Mr. Boom was already rolling toward the door, his wheelchair humming like a predator preparing to pounce.

Mainlining watched the faint neon trail disappear into the night, eyeing the rotting Boar’s Head pep, fused to its grimy microwave altar. "Mr. Boom. Mr. Glass. Evan39. Me? All just one guy… cutting himself to pieces."

From the shadows, Mr. Boom’s voice echoed back, faint but chilling: "ADM fraud$ will break. And $oon."

Behind Mr. Boom, the bingo card fluttered to the floor, its soy-stained corner catching the dim light. Somewhere in the shadows, the grind continued, indifferent and eternal, its rhythm echoing Mr. Boom’s delusions of ADM’s collapse. This is fine.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3349731&forum_id=2Elisa#48515896)